


Yours Forever

by ran_ranarroz



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens Fluff, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Hamilton References, Hurt Alexander Hamilton, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 22:46:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12945669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ran_ranarroz/pseuds/ran_ranarroz
Summary: This is a paper I did for a class... My teacher's comments where that there was a lot of sexual tension. Sorry not sorry.HISTORY IS NOT ACCURATE. I will never have my history correct, I failed history 110%, but I love Hamilton and I love Lam.Also, the letter that is in here I found on a webpage with uncovered Hamilton letters.. so actual feels.Also also, Mark Rogers is not a real person. He was used as a tactic to get a different kind of story and he largely embodies myself.





	Yours Forever

**Author's Note:**

> This is a paper I did for a class... My teacher's comments where that there was a lot of sexual tension. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> HISTORY IS NOT ACCURATE. I will never have my history correct, I failed history 110%, but I love Hamilton and I love Lam. 
> 
> Also, the letter that is in here I found on a webpage with uncovered Hamilton letters.. so actual feels.
> 
> Also also, Mark Rogers is not a real person. He was used as a tactic to get a different kind of story and he largely embodies myself.

The many shoes pounding in the hallway echoed throughout the Conference Hall. The noise of clicking heels and multiple conversations only added to the heated feelings being expressed in those exchanges. It was hot and humid and all the windows and doors were closed tightly. Men in groups of three to six stood in their long sleeve overcoats talking over each other. The hallway outside the conference room was filled with at least fifty bodies. The noise echoed off the paintings on the walls, the low hanging ceiling and the wood planks beneath their feet.

At last, I spotted him over the shoulder of an older gentlemen after having scanned through the crowd a few times already. I could barely stop my own feet from taking off in his direction and before it fully registered I had stopped right before him. My voice felt trapped in my throat. Finally, I croaked, “Nice day it is, Sir.”

He was shorter than I would have thought, coming up to just about my height, although I still had him by at least an inch. His long emerald green overcoat accented his dark curly hair that was pulled back into a low ponytail. His deep brown eyes met mine and he spoke in a clear and fast, yet polite voice, “Do I know you?”

“Oh, where are my manners? Rogers, Mark Rogers, Sir. I’m filling in for New Hampshire this week, original delegate had a rough start back home,” I shuffled the stack of papers into the crook of my left arm so I could offer up my right hand.

He clasped my hand and responded, “Hamilton, Alexander Hamilton. Sorry to hear about that, but I suppose attendance is usually helpful.”

I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat, the gears in my mind working at high speed. Of course he felt the need to introduce himself. It wasn’t like he was supposed to automatically know that I have read everything he has written and am fully informed on his anonymous names in some of his published works. It’s not like Alexander Hamilton is a name easy to forget either. Not to mention the influential part he played in the war in 1776 and again in 1778. All the while trying to publically push through Congress his plan for a National Bank. He must be perfectly insane to think that I would have no idea who he is.

“You wanted to tell me about the weather, then?” Hamilton’s eyes remained steady and his smile genuine as he released my hand.

I felt my eyes widen and I could imagine the color rushing to my cheeks, “No. No, of course not, Sir. I actually wanted to talk with you about the letter you wrote to John Jay back in March of ‘79.” I could feel the words pouring out of my mouth, he must think I’ve gone mad. Talking to him about personal letters he had exchanged, “The one about the slaves and them receiving freedom for serving in the war.”

Hamilton reached back and pulled the band out of his hair setting the mass of curls free. Smiling, his long slender fingers slid through his hair pulling it back into a higher ponytail, no doubt the heat of the midday sun was getting to him. “I would be lying if I said it was all my idea. A good friend of mine tipped me off, seeing as how we are both opposed to slavery. Devastating waste of human potential,” He trailed off, his hand massaging the wrist of his dominant writing hand. His sore wrists and skinny frame demonstrated his lack of care for himself, yet also his dedication to his work.

I readjusted the stack of papers in my arms again. “A friend? Well, I’d love to meet him. Is he here?”

“No.” This time his voice sounded strained and grew softer, like it was tinged with pain. He continued much quieter, “John… He’s still out fighting… He was just released actually, got captured in Pennsylvania last year… Prisoners of war and stuff like that...” With that his jaw clenched a little and the sparkle in his eyes dwindled away. The light-hearted humor and open excitement in the conversation disappeared so quickly and I couldn’t help but blame myself for taking it away. How was I to know?

I didn’t know whether to apologize or just change the subject. It was clear he cared a lot for this friend of his. “Of course he is. It’s one of the best causes worth fighting for,” I gushed, trying to save the lost moment. “I’m sure he’ll be headed home soon, Sir.”

Hamilton’s eyes wandered over my shoulder as I spoke, but at my last few words they returned to our present conversation and the corner of his mouth turned up into a smirk. The fog of gloom disappearing as if it hadn’t even existed. “In a few days time, to be exact. I daresay I’ll see you tomorrow, first meeting of the Congress of Confederation. Great way to start off the spring of ‘81,” he made to step around me and headed for the doors.

I turned and fell in step behind him, “Hamilton, Sir. Wait just one second, if you will.” He turned abruptly, his eyebrows raised in question. “Are you busy tonight? I’m staying in the rooms above Fraunces Tavern… Could I buy you a drink?”

He smiled again, showing small white teeth. “I’ll see you at seven.” He stepped away and opened the door letting in a long strip of sunlight but no breeze to unsettle the stiffly heat. “You can call me Alex,” He said over his shoulder and winked. I watched the door close behind him and stood mystified.

The chaos in the hall continued as if I hadn’t just carried on a conversation with Alexander Hamilton.  _ The _ Alexander Hamilton. As if we hadn’t just agreed to drinks. I repeated our conversation over and over in my mind. It was all I could do to convince myself I wasn’t dreaming.

 

***

 

  Fraunces Tavern was welcoming and the heat was lifted, if only minisculely, by propped open windows. The sun had sunk below the horizon but its rays still fought to reach higher, streaking across the cloud scattered evening sky. I looked away from the window and settled on watching the door, leaning sideways on the bar. The door creaked open and I held my breath. To my grave disappointment it was only another villager who crossed the room and took a seat at a table with two other men talking softly over drinks.

“Waiting on someone?”

I jumped in my seat, the gravelly voice of the barman had startled me out of my thoughts. I glanced at the door quickly and then fully turned to face him over the bar, “As a matter of fact, James, I’m waiting for Hamilton. That’s right, Alexander Hamilton.” I let the boyish smug look linger on my face.

James chuckled and set down the glass he finished drying with a small white rag on the shelf behind the bar. “Hamilton.” He said with a nostalgic look and chuckled again, “John and him always making scenes.”

He gestured up to the open tavern with a free hand. Heavy wooden tables scattered around the room and a few small groups of men dispersed amongst the tables, but James’ eyes told me he was seeing something different than I was.

“John?” The name stole the look from my face and I became suddenly much more attentive to what he had to say.

“John Laurens,” James casually continued even though he moved a few feet down the bar to grab another glass from the counter, seemingly having snapped out of his memory. “Good friends with Alex. Drawn closer by the years and the Revolution. Both are very close with Washington, like family some say, as I’m sure you already know. They don’t come around much anymore, the war and everything that comes with that. I wouldn’t keep him waiting if I were you.”

It only made sense that the friend, by the name of John Laurens that James was speaking of was the very same friend that Hamilton was missing. They’ve been brought together by the war; he was still fighting in the war. My thoughts were racing with this new information about Hamilton that I didn’t register what James had said until I heard the familiar voice from behind me.

“Evening, James. How’s business?” Hamilton took a seat at the stool standing next to mine.

“Slow, Alex. And don't you go waltzing in here like it hasn't been almost a year since I've seen you.” The words were meant to be a discipline but his tone was that of someone attempting to punish their newborn puppy.

Hamilton looked up from the mug of coffee that James placed before him and a slow and languid grin spread across his tired features. His eyes met James’ and I immediately felt like I was imposing on a very strong relationship, much like a father and son.

“Shall we find a table, Mark?” Hamilton inquired. He stood up, breaking the eye contact with James, and grabbed his coffee mug. He retreated to a table across the dimly lit room without waiting for a response. I scrambled after him glancing quickly at James over my shoulder. He had resumed cleaning and rearranging glasses behind the bar, as if nothing had happened.

“Sir,” I basically fell into my seat across the table from him. Hamilton’s eyes remained steady, just as they had when we first met. “I wanted to say thank you for agreeing to join me for drinks tonight.”

“Alex,” He corrected me and leaned forward staring down intently into his coffee cup, as if he was about to tell me the path of my future, or was maybe searching for his own. I needed to work on that. Alex. I said it over a few times in my mind. “He said he would be back for a few days. Any time between tonight and Thursday night.”

“John Laurens,” I whispered. He nodded into his cup. When he looked up he was smiling but he looked thoroughly distraught.

“Sir-” I began but quickly corrected myself. “Alex, if you don’t mind my asking, who is John Laurens?”

“I already told you; he’s my friend.”

I shook my head and looked into his eyes imploringly, “Who is he to you?”

“How is it that I just met you but I feel you already know everything about me?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “Not everything,” I responded and sat back in my seat trying to play off as casual while at the same time completely evading the question. I obviously knew the answer but I didn’t want to focus on what I already knew about him. I wanted to talk about him now, the parts I don’t know. In the end, what does it matter what I knew when there was more to learn?

“You’re right, you know,” Alex took a sip of coffee and replaced the mug in the same spot. “John means more to me than most people know. He knows though, and that’s all that matters.” He reached a hand into the very same emerald green overcoat he had been wearing that afternoon although the white undershirt wasn’t tucked in as neatly as it had been prior. He withdrew a small stack of yellowed, folded sheets of paper. He shuffled through them and selected one closer to the bottom. Unfolding it I caught a glimpse of a relatively short letter. My curiosity need not last long, Alex handed me the letter and returned his gaze to the cup. My eyes graced the words:

  
  


“April, 1779

Dear, John Laurens,

‘Cold in my professions, warm in [my] friendships, I wish, my Dear Laurens, it m[ight] be in my power, by action rather than words, [to] convince you that I love you…’”

  
  


I finished the letter and replaced it on the table before us. The tavern had grown quiet, many men quitting for the night. Some remained but sat alone. The door opened beyond Alex’s shoulder and a man walked in, a deep blue overcoat billowing behind him. He had a small bulging sack hanging over his shoulder, it bounced on his back as he crossed to the bar and summoned James.

“You said he’ll be back anytime between tonight and Thursday night, right?”

Alex pulled himself out of the depths of his cup and looked at me again, “That’s right. But it’s too late tonight. Maybe tomorrow morning. Maybe Thursday.”

I suddenly backtracked. “Alex, you said he knew about how you felt,” I glanced down at the letter lying on the scratched wooden table. “Did you ever send him this letter? Did John ever get it?”

Before Alex was able to respond a low and husky voice accompanied by the same deep blue overcoat that had swept through the entryway moments before answered my question. “Of course he sent it.”

Alex and I looked up as the man with long brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail crossed the tavern to our table. He dropped his sack at the foot of our table with a resounding thud and placed on the table a piece of paper identical, save for a few smears made by dirty finger tips, to the one already lying there. “Alexander, here, likes to make duplicates of the letters he sends me. Just in case.”

Everything that came after this was a series of events that I look back on in a complete blur. Alex was beyond excitement and still extremely shocked that John had turned up. Introductions were knocked aside with ease and before long James had joined the gathering. The conversations smoothly traveled between memories recited by James, stories of John’s travels and the work Alex has put into the Revolutionary cause back home.

When we had to admit the night was coming to a close we all aided James in grabbing dirty glasses from empty tables. I enjoyed the company of Alex and John, they worked well together and understood each other so simply. I looked across the tavern and observed as they both reached for a set of glasses on a table in the middle of the room. They looked up and smiled at each other, a knowing smile, and retreated towards the bar together with the empty glasses in hand. As I reached over the table at which Alex and I sat not too long ago to grab his mug, still half full of now cold coffee, my eyes fell on the two letters that remained side by side. Upon first glance I had believed them to be identical, but now I noticed an obvious difference. In the duplicate letter, the one I read, Alex had never signed it. My eyes were immediately drawn to the bottom of the letter John had presented to us:

 

“‘Yours forever,

Hamilton’”


End file.
